


Dread of the Blade

by RaincoatUmbrella



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: (I should mention that the hurt/comfort element is twisted all the way to hell), (it's complicated), ...you get the gist, Cho Being Cho, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Five Stages of Grief... subverted, I shouldn't have to specify that Patrick Jane is traumatized because obviously he is, Internal crisis, Jane being Jane, M/M, and an eventual Alternate Ending, but yeah that's definitely a theme here, first of all let me make something very clear: Red John isn't McA in this fic, implied suicidal ideation, miss me with that canon bullshit, so who is he? read and find out, there is some slight Canon Divergence (though it's mostly expansive)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:06:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27370168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaincoatUmbrella/pseuds/RaincoatUmbrella
Summary: It wasn’t death that Patrick Jane was afraid of. It was the curved beak of the blade, and what it might expose from within.
Relationships: Patrick Jane & Kimball Cho, Patrick Jane & Rosalind Harker, Patrick Jane & Teresa Lisbon, Patrick Jane/Red John
Comments: 14
Kudos: 24





	1. Denial

**Author's Note:**

  * For [belatrix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/belatrix/gifts).



> Um, so.
> 
> Took me 11 years to get to this point, but I'm finally writing fic for this horrible, horrible pairing. And it has been one hell of a journey, let me tell ya. I actually started drafting this story two and a half years ago, and I've had the main idea simmering on low heat for a lot longer than that - circa 2010, if I'm completely honest. That's a looong time to plan a fic without writing it. But better late than never, right? At least I'm having fun. :D
> 
> Anyway, this was originally supposed to be a longer one-shot, but I eventually decided to break it up a bit and turn it into a multiparter instead. I'm glad I did, because the story actually gained a lot more substance as I was figuring out a thematic pattern to divide the chapters with. One of the later chapters will directly refer and pay homage to another fic by belatrix (to whom I owe the fact that I'm contributing to this fandom in the first place), hence the gifting. I'll tag the work in question properly as the source of inspiration once we get there.
> 
> I can say with a fair amount of confidence that this is going to be a pretty interesting ride, at least to those who have put extra focus in the relationship between Jane and Red John, and how it developed over the course of the first four seasons. (The canon is more or less dead to me from season 5 onward, so this fic won't address anything beyond S4. Thought I'd mention that in advance.)
> 
> Without further ado, enjoy the read!

* * *

Right from the start, Jane had been somewhat aware of the vague presence that had settled in his memory palace uninvited.

Only half-aware, though; it had never been his intention to allow the man who had taken everything from him into the quieter retreats of his mind. Those rooms had been reserved for the memories he’d wanted to keep, for the loved ones that were no longer in his life but he still needed to talk to from time to time.

Red John wasn’t one of those people. There was nothing to talk about. Nothing to say.

But for a longer while now, his mind had elected to ignore his well-being in favor of compulsion. Every second not spent on solving the case was a second wasted. Every new speck of information he learned had to be studied, questioned, taken at face value, dwelled on, and questioned again. There was no end to it; even his scarce hours of rest became excuses to conjure up ghosts of the smell of wood and soil and blood, of strong and gentle hands working with the careful precision of an artisan, of smiling faces and soft, quiet voices, one sleepless night after another.

It wasn’t until their first meeting in the candlelit basement that those second-hand memories would begin to fuse with his own and take shape into something more tangible.

* * *

Now, at last, his imagination had something to build around the skeleton made of every statement he’d heard from Red John’s friends and victims alike. Flesh. Presence. A human silhouette. A distorted voice muttering softly into his ear. The metallic stench of blood, mixed with a faint scent of something else that felt distantly familiar. A hand. Weight. Gentle pressure. Quiet mockery… but no sense of danger. He’d only glimpsed at the knife resting idly in the gloved hand.

Red John hadn’t saved his life. It was nothing but a coincidence.

 _There_ _’s no such thing as coincidence_ , he heard a recording of his own past words. _Not when it_ _’s him_.

It could’ve been the young copycat killers he was after. Or it could’ve been Jane himself. The idea of Red John keeping an eye on him wasn’t exactly unlikely at this point. It would explain a lot, including the feeling of being watched in his sleep that continued to haunt him even now.

Jane opened his eyes slightly to glance at the crudely drawn smile on the wall. _Well_ , he thought, _there might be a simpler explanation for that_.

Not that he minded the company… It was a passing thought, and he instantly regretted it.

Regardless of whether his life had been spared or saved, approaching him in the first place had been nothing but a risky move in Red John’s game. Jane couldn’t help but feel it was symbiotic, somehow. There was no denying the sense of satisfaction in the chase, no matter how many times he’d had to admit the seemingly flawless choreography his foe kept inviting him in. Rather than always being one step ahead of him, it felt as though Red John was urging him to keep up and focus on the dance.

It gave him an inconvenient thrill; it was the game that made him feel truly alive, no matter how much he wanted to say he’d rather be dead.

There was bleak conviction mixed in with that sentiment. It should’ve been him all along. He should’ve been targeted in the first place, not them. Never them.

If anything, their happenchance encounter should’ve been the perfect opportunity for Red John to take his life there and then. He’d been practically offered to him on a silver plate, hadn’t he? It would’ve been so easy. But he was still alive, and he didn’t understand why.

And just like every night since their meeting, he was sinking back into the moment he’d felt the most alive in the hands that, by all logic, should’ve brought about his death.

He felt the lingering weight of each gloved fingertip caressing his shoulder for no other reason than to taunt him, to remind him of his helpless position. The quiet sound of leather brushing against the fabric of his shirt, creating small creases on it as it was trapped between the fingers, the plastic wrap rustling under the light touch. He remembered even the slightest detail clear as day.

The stillness of it all racked his nerves, and in a fit of frustration, he tried to provoke the memory of his foe into giving him answers reality had failed to provide. _Why stop there? Why not go through with the usual?_ It made no sense. Red John sparing his life, let alone _saving_ it, made no sense. The mere thought of it set his teeth on edge. Why was he special?

Why would Red John keep his distance from him when he’d never hesitated to put his hands on any other victim he’d claimed in the past?

Jane felt a hateful rush as his inner monologue started to sound more and more like a strange, foolhardy deathwish. _Do your worst. Why don_ _’t you kill me like the others?_ All it would take was a firm grip on his hair to pull his head back gently, just enough to expose his throat to the curved blade that was already stained in red –

He drew in a sharp breath, taking a mental step back from his racing imagination. It seemed that the memory he’d been so carefully reconstructing until a moment ago wasn’t entirely bound by facts. If he kept his eyes closed and lay completely still, he could almost feel the gloved fingers running through the lower locks of his hair. More playful than violent, as Red John always had been whenever he had his mind set on Patrick Jane.

But as vivid as it was, he couldn’t take the scenario further than that. He felt the knife pressed lightly against his throat, but it refused to break the skin. He wondered why. Perhaps the contrast with reality was too stark; after all, in that room his life had been saved, not taken.

Perhaps a change of scenery would make room for a different outcome.

If Red John refused to kill him in a setting that wasn’t his own handiwork… how about switching to the classic composition he’d left most of his victims in? _Would you like that? I bet you would, you pedantic, egomaniacal freak_.

 _In fact_ , he then thought, his pulse picking up as he was taken by another surge of adrenaline, _why not go the full mile while you_ _’re at it?_ Invasion, execution, full presentation, the whole deal. A work of art. Captured, tied up and blindfolded, undressed, exposed, every pretentious piece of clothing taken apart by the knife and folded neatly to the side in a show of twisted irony… Careful to recall even the smallest detail from all the crime scenes Red John had left in his wake, he pictured himself in the usual position, his voice withered in his throat, shaking with a terrifying anticipation of the first impact. _That_ _’s right, there_ _’s nothing stopping you now, so do what you always do_ _… I bet you huddle next to your victim and watch closely as life leaves their body, like the psychopath that you are_ _… You_ _’d better not turn your eyes away from me for a second when I bleed out. And when you_ _’re done with me, be sure to make it special, why don_ _’t you? After all these years, I_ _’d say I deserve a little more attention to detail._ _It_ _’s the small things here and there that make all the difference, just like you did with Angela_ _–_

 _You_ _’re being awfully disrespectful_ , a strange, thin voice spoke softly above him, _not only to me, but to the memory of your lovely wife as well._

His heart curled up as he realized just how deep into his own brand of madness he’d let his mind wander. And the scenario still playing in his head didn’t seem to be ending any time soon.

 _I appreciate the thought you_ _’ve put into this_ _… but sadly, this isn_ _’t what I have in mind for you._

A shudder traveled through his body as he felt a hand settle somewhere below his chest.

 _You_ _’re different. You_ _’re very special to me._

He almost felt like laughing. Oh, he knew that _._

 _And if I were to undress you, it wouldn_ _’t be to expose you to anyone but myself._

He was a little too out of breath for his own comfort.

 _If I were to take my blade to you_ _… it would only be because you were begging for my attention. Like you are now._

There was an odd twist in the pit of his stomach, and for a second, he wished the voice would stop talking. Only for a second, though.

 _But you must know by now that I would never hurt you. Not in the way I_ _’ve hurt others._

Soft leather dragged lines across his bare skin in a familiar pattern.

 _I can make you surrender in other ways. I can stay, if you want me to_ _… We can talk._

_But I doubt you want to talk._

No. He didn’t want to talk.

_What is it that you want, Patrick?_

It was obvious, wasn’t it? He wanted to know more. He wanted _more_. More proof and evidence, new victims, new cases, more secrets whispered into his ear, new encounters, new memories he could twist and turn as he pleased. New games, a new chase, more sleepless nights, more…

A hand kept wandering lightly over his lower abdomen like a threat, from one side to another, a reminder of what acts of madness it had proven to be capable of. Deep, horizontal gashes _._

Red John had fallen quiet, almost as if lost in thought, while Jane was steadily getting lost in his earlier impatience. This was ludicrous. _You_ _’re a serial killer, aren_ _’t you? Why don_ _’t you act like it for a change?_ If the man would just get to the point and stab him to death, maybe his mind would stop spiraling into insanity and finally get some rest.

But of course, he wasn’t allowed to rest. As long as Red John was alive, he’d keep tormenting him like this, with threats and taunts and a gentle, possessive hand that was no longer on his shoulder, sliding further down –

…

Despite the blindfold, Jane squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing hard against the breath he was holding. He’d… felt that… hadn’t he?

 _Patrick_ _…?_

It was more of an exhale than a question, the voice that uttered it even softer than before. He’d felt it… of course he had. There was no way he hadn’t, with his arm resting idly on his still clothed lower body. His inevitable physical reaction was steadily bleeding into the bizarre fantasy that had caused it.

The fingers that had danced on him were now frozen still. For a moment that dragged on and on, nothing happened.

It was only natural, because _this_ … couldn’t possibly be happening. Not even in his imagination. Let alone his memory palace. This was sick. It had to stop.

But Red John didn’t seem hesitant, only distracted.

The warm weight of his hand disappeared for a moment, only to find its way on Jane’s face.

He laughed, barely making a sound.

 _I hadn_ _’t planned for this, either_ _… But I_ _’ll be happy to improvise._

A thumb softly caressed the corner of his mouth; it was slow and tentative, like a gesture of affection. Jane couldn’t stop his lips from quivering a bit at the intimate contact. It was then that he realized Red John was no longer wearing gloves.

_How dare you, Mr. Jane?_

The hammering sound of his pulse wasn’t enough to drown the whispers that now blew warm and taunting on his face.

 _How dare you crave the hand that ended your daughter_ _’s life_ _…_

For one fleeting second, wrath twisted Jane’s insides and flooded his mind with a metallic chill. But it was drained out of him just as fast when warm, unfamiliar lips brushed lightly against his jawline.

He could hardly register it at first; but his body was far quicker to react.

A half-formed sound slipped through his teeth, followed by an odd silence that made the tremble in his breathing far too loud. Red John must’ve been listening to it as well, his own breaths similarly bated with anticipation… but somehow calmer. More focused. More…

There was another kiss, just below his chin. Another, a little lower, tracing the shape of his Adam’s apple. The instinctive need to hold his breath fought against the lack of oxygen, making his head sway with every featherweight kiss trailing down the side of his neck.

 _You_ _’re beautiful_ , the voice whispered as it reached his collarbone. Another small whine broke out despite all his efforts. By now, it was impossible to deny any of what was happening, but he couldn’t bring himself to understand _how_. Perhaps this was just a deranged manifestation of something he’d subconsciously observed at one point or another, but his mind couldn’t make sense of… Maybe it would stop if he made sense of it. Like a puzzle. A very distracting puzzle.

_Tyger, tyger_

Ah, that… seemed logical. He’d heard him say those words, and replayed them in his head hundreds of times… Technically, he was able to… form the shape of a mouth around them. That was probably it. A rational explanation.

_burning bright_

But now, the song was being sung against his skin. It left a trail of dampness and heat on his heaving chest.

_In the forest of the night_

The hands slid down to gently support him by the waist as if leading him in a dance. He writhed weakly in the loose embrace. He’d never had another man’s hands on him before. He’d had _his_ hands on him, though… but not like this. _This_ was all in his head, his own delusions, his…

_What immortal hand or eye_

He was clearly losing his mind, but it might… not be all bad. Who knows, maybe he could… discover something…

_could frame_

…new from this, something… that could help him catch…

_thy fearful_

…oh, dear _god_ …

The softly humming lips had crossed the line between bare skin and cloth, traveling down the last protective layer of vanity and shame he was allowed to hold onto.

_symmetry?_

His jaw went slack and a low moan fell from his lips as he struggled lazily against the hands pushing his hips down. _Enough with the kisses,_ he thought in an impatient haze _. Just get it over with._ Strip him off of what little dignity he had left, and… just…

But at this point, his own lust was irrelevant. His mind had never agreed to spin a pleasant fantasy to relieve himself with. This was the thrall Red John had over him, and regardless of whether or not he’d surrendered to his morbid desires, he was no longer anything but Red John’s work, his trade, his territory. An empty stage with no spectators. Jane had always been a performer, always eager to meet his audience’s demands. But not Red John – he only knew his work, and he was devoted to it. Meticulous. Graceful. Like an act of worship.

His head had drooped limply sideways, his breathing a seesaw of shallow gasps and ragged exhales, a weak smile rippling on his lips as one torturously slow kiss after another fell where he so desperately wanted them.

He’d always been this enraptured, hadn’t he? In all the times his eyes met that sad, grotesque smile, he’d never been anything but mesmerized by the simplicity and precision of it. He’d found himself drawn to it at the first crime scene he visited, even… before the death of his family…

 _Tell me, Patrick_ _…_

Just hearing his own name in that odd, sweet whisper filled his head with dull sparks of pleasure.

_Why did you call out to me that night?_

Jane wasn’t a fool. In fact, he was supposed to be exceedingly smarter than the average person, a genius in his own right. So why… would he go out of his way to provoke a serial killer on live television?

He didn’t know when it had started. He could hardly remember a time when he hadn’t been constantly craving for Red John’s attention. He couldn’t imagine _not_ wanting him. Why wouldn’t he want him? He was… _brilliant_.

There was a note of ecstasy in his every breath. In the end, he’d caught his attention, hadn’t he? He’d had him hook, line and sinker. He’d known he would be watching, and he’d lured him out, all the way into this very room.

 _Red John is mine. He_ _’s mine._

His knuckles were white from gripping the sheets as his entire body strained against the sweetness and cold heat spreading into every muscle, every inch of his skin, every hidden corner of his mind.

 _You_ _’re mine_ _… You_ _’re_ _–_

And finally, it was all too much for him.

When all was said and done, he found himself begging under his breath in desperate, impossible hunger for more, just a little bit more.

_Let me see your face._

A smile rippled against his gaping lips. Friction without contact. _No._ _Not yet._

He could feel Red John’s adoring gaze on himself, and then it was all over.

He came back to his senses disheveled and breathless, nearly sobbing between his gasps of bliss, his forehead damp with sweat, his muscles warm and his skin cold; and as silence settled back in and lulled him to dreamless sleep, the pitiful smile that watched over him mirrored his own.

* * *

He woke up early, just in time to see the rising sun.

It had been seven years since the last time he’d spent his morning without hurry or need to get dressed and away from the emptiness of his home. And for the first time in seven years, he found peace in the quiet desolation surrounding him. There had been no one to witness the unraveling of his sanity that night, so there was no need to feel shame, either.

The rhythmical hum of laundry from the next room and the pleasantly hot water running over him kept him rather comfortable company as he soaked himself in the shower for what must’ve been over half an hour.

As he was changing into his daywear, his eyes chanced at a forgotten nook of his dressing room. On an odd whim, he turned his back on the usual three-piece suits and reached for an old pair of jeans and a plain t-shirt. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d worn them. Probably never, he then thought with a note of humor, and wondered why he owned them in the first place.

Despite having been stored away for so long, they smelled surprisingly nice.

Feeling calm and refreshed, he made his way to the kitchen, grabbing his phone on the way.

“Hey, Cho. I’m taking a day off, maybe two. Can you pass the word on to the boss for me?”

Calling Lisbon directly would’ve lead to a few questions too many; he could count on Cho to keep it simple.

“Sure, I’ll let her know. What’s up?”

“I feel like I should take some time for myself, that’s all.”

“Working from home again, huh? Don’t burn yourself out.”

Jane held back a chuckle. Cho must’ve assumed his _time for himself_ meant a day spent alone with the Red John files he’d taken home with him. Copying case files for personal use was against the rules, of course, and he hadn’t exactly made an announcement to the rest of the team. The man on the line knew him too well.

“I won’t.”

“And hey, about what I said yesterday. Don’t think too hard on it, okay? It was just a thought. If you’re planning something reckless –“

“I’m not planning anything of the sort. Don’t worry.”

“You’re not a decoy.”

“I know.”

“Even if what I said was true. Don’t do anything reckless.”

The wryly smiling reflection on the cupboard’s glass door told Jane there was no one else in the house. “Later, Cho.”

With a hum, he put the kettle on the stove and moved to browse the cabinet where he kept his tea. He hadn’t restocked in a while, and there wasn’t much variety to choose from.

When he reached for his old favorite, something made him stop still in his tracks. For a moment, he was completely lost in thought, staring dazed at the pack of tea in his hand.

Shoving it back in the cabinet, he turned off the stove and reached for his phone again.

He found the number he was looking for from the tail end of his recent calls.

“Hey, it’s me. Patrick Jane.” A short silence, then a smile. “No, I thought you might hang up on me, actually. But I’m glad you didn’t. Listen, are you free this evening? I’d like to come by for another visit, if that’s all right.”


	2. Anger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter, here at last! Soooo we started off sorta steamy with the first chapter, and this one's a little less that and a little more everything else. (So happy I got to write heaps of actual dialogue now. And several new character appearances! Wohoo!) 
> 
> Setting up some real thematic directions this time around - this chapter should give the reader at least something of an idea on where the story is headed, _although_ you should expect to see some twists and turns along the way. Well, I hope at least. I'm really more of a straightforward character study kind of author, but I promise to try my hand at a wham or two!
> 
> Enjoy the read c:

* * *

“ _Oh, and you. He wanted you. Badly.”_

 _Even without the added effect of_ _a_ _gun_ _aimed_ _at him, that particular choice of words was rubbing Jane the wrong way._

“ _For what?”_

_The smile rippling on Dumar’s lips made his skin crawl. It told him what he already knew: if Red John had wanted him dead, he would’ve killed him a long time ago._

“ _Oh, you’ll just have to wait and see.”_

 _But he never did; and sometimes he regretted n_ _ot_ _finding out. If his plan hadn’t worked, if something had gone wrong, if Lisbon hadn’t intervened… he would’ve met Red John that day, trapped in that lonely old house where no one else would find them. And his capturer would’ve had all the time in the world._

_Nice and quiet._

_But for what?_

_If Red John had wanted him dead, it wouldn’t have required such an elaborate setting in such an isolated location._

_Sometimes, in retrospect, his curiosity would defy his resolve. Sometimes he regretted it._

* * *

“Mr. Jane.” There was a note of surprise in the voice that greeted him at the door. “You came back.”

“Hello, Rosalind.” Jane reached to briefly hold the outreached hand in his. It was something less formal than a regular handshake. “I brought back your stuffed elephant, like you asked. I was going to return it sooner, but… well, got caught up with the old detective work.”

He handed the toy over to Rosalind, who immediately squeezed it against her chest with both arms and closed her eyes. She stayed like that for a good while, like she was embracing a lost, beloved friend. “Thank you”, she muttered at last, lifting her face a little. “So… you’re done with your investigation?”

“That we are. Case closed.”

“Did you find Roy?”

“Sadly, no. But we’re still looking.” A half-truth, maybe, but that didn’t matter. “It may or may not help with our search, but if there’s anything else you can share about Roy… I would personally like to know more about him, if you don’t mind me being a little nosy.”

Rosalind smiled sweetly. “Not at all”, she said and gestured him to step inside. “You’re a welcome guest, despite the hasty conclusions you made last time. Just be respectful, all right? Try to keep the groundless accusations to a minimum.”

“I will”, Jane promised.

“Is tea okay?”

“More than okay.”

With a happy little hum, Rosalind directed her steps towards the kitchen while Jane did his usual rounds in the living room. Not much had changed after his last visit, but now that there was no ongoing case to keep his mind on one thing only, he could allow himself a more spontaneous inspection of his surroundings.

“I see a lot of souvenirs here. You travel a lot?”

“No, not really, for obvious reasons. Those were brought in by friends and family.”

“I figured out as much”, Jane said as he picked up a cheap-looking miniature of the Eiffel tower, “seeing how most of these have been purchased from sightseeing hot spots, and, well… you know.”

The tone of Rosalind’s answer echoing from the kitchen was only somewhat amused. “You’d be surprised how many times I’ve had the pleasure of hearing that same old pun when someone new visits my house. No offense, Mr. Jane, but it gets a little old. And speaking of being insensitive, please put down whatever you’re tinkering with.”

 _Ouch._ Jane had to admit to himself he’d let his judgment slip this time. “Sorry. Old habit.”

“I can tell you’re used to not respecting the personal space of others”, Rosalind went on with a casual note. “Me, I’m used to be given a little too much of it, so I appreciate that you’re not walking on eggshells with me. But this is my house, and I like my things where they are and my guests not sneaking around under the excuse that I can’t see what they’re doing.” The whistling of the kettle filled the kitchen for a second or two, then ceased quickly as it was lifted off of the stove. “I’m almost done here. Could you set the table for me?”

“Of course.” Jane wondered how she would feel about the face drawn on her bedroom wall, and whether it was his moral obligation to help her realize that her trust had already been betrayed. He decided against it; he’d promised to be respectful, after all. “The matching set, right? Same as last time?”

“That’s the one.”

They sat down on opposing sides of the table, even though it wasn’t exactly necessary for maintaining eye contact.

“You seem more confident than the last time we met”, Jane pointed out. “More self-possessed. Less eager to prove that you’re just as capable as the next girl.”

“Well, you didn’t exactly meet me at my best hour”, said Rosalind a little gingerly. “I was quite shaken by the awful things you said about Roy, untrue as they were. I’ll admit that much.”

“Sounds like for a moment there you weren’t so positive in your belief that he’s not the man we were looking for.”

“Like I said, you caught me off guard.” For a moment, neither spoke as they took their first sip of tea. “We did have plans, Roy and I”, she continued then. “For traveling the world, I mean. He had all these wonderful ideas for destinations that someone like me would get the most out of.”

“Tourism for all four senses.”

“Yes”, Rosalind smiled. “And what I couldn’t see, he would describe to me. He said he’d be my fifth sense.”

“Second-hand sight”, Jane formulated. “I like that. Reminds me of all those small-time celebrities on TV that like to pretend having psychic powers.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well…” He stared lazily into his tea. “That’s what they do. They make their own observations, cultivate them into their own trademark hogwash and pass them on to someone else. The trick is to only tell their marks what they want to hear, and leave out the unpleasant parts.”

Rosalind frowned. “Are you accusing Roy of fraudulence?”

“Not necessarily. All I’m saying is it takes one to know one. I was one myself – a fraud, that is. Made quite a career out of it before it eventually got my family killed.”

He wasn’t sure why he’d mentioned his family all of a sudden. To appear more sympathetic after a poorly covered insult directed at her precious Roy, perhaps; but judging by the steely look in Rosalind’s eyes, it appeared he’d failed spectacularly in that department.

“Mr. Jane”, she started slowly, “all I’m asking you is that you try to understand my perspective in all this. The line I’ve drawn is a very reasonable one, and yet you keep crossing it over and over again. Can we stop that? I like having you over, but I could do without the constant patronizing remarks.”

“Of course. You’re right, and I’m sorry.” He sipped his tea, taking the excuse to be quiet for once. Rosalind did have a point; he’d been patronizing her in almost every turn. Then again, it was hard not to, given the circumstances.

“Why do you want to know more about Roy, anyway? How could someone like him be connected to the man who murdered your family?”

Jane let his silence linger for a few more seconds. Frankly, he’d been wondering about the same thing.

“Even if I’m wrong, and there was no connection at all”, he said, “I know you still want to tell me about Roy.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m giving you the excuse to talk about him. To relive the memories. You miss him, don’t you?”

Rosalind’s expression was pained. “Of course I do. More than I could ever tell you.”

Jane glanced at the stuffed elephant in her arms. He couldn’t deny that bringing it to her as a gift had been a somewhat touching gesture from the original purchaser’s part. “What about Dumar? Did he ever visit you after Roy disappeared?”

“No. I only met him that one time. It’s such a shame… He was very sweet.”

Jane shrugged bleakly to himself. He knew there would never be a second time. “Thanksgiving, right? Can you tell me more about that day?”

“Well…” A nostalgic smile spread up to Rosalind’s half-lidded eyes. “Dumar was in charge of the turkey. He bought it fresh from a nearby farm, said he’d gotten it at a fair price after he’d offered to butcher it himself. He was so excited, like a young boy who’d caught a fish for the first time… He didn’t know a single thing about the cooking part that followed, though.” She let out a hearty laugh. “It was a cozy day, with all three of us spending hours in the kitchen together. Like family.”

 _Like family._ What a sad joke. “Was this a common thing, you and Roy cooking together?”

“It was. He rarely let me cook for him without helping out. He wanted to be part of the action.”

“I can imagine.”

“But he never doubted my cooking skills, unlike Dumar, who just wouldn’t stop making thoughtless remarks unless Roy specifically told him to. They had such an interesting dynamic, almost sibling-like.”

“Sibling-like how?”

Rosalind laughed. “Dumar was the tactless, loud-mouthed baby brother, of course. He spent half the dinner talking about some girl he had a crush on. Oh, he had everything planned, a big wedding and a small house and half a dozen potential names for their children… Roy actually had to remind him that he hadn’t so much as talked to her once. He was the calm, level-headed older brother keeping Dumar in check. He didn’t talk nearly as much… He always preferred to listen to what other people had to say.”

“Oh yeah?”

Rosalind nodded. “And he smiled a lot. I could hear his smile in almost every word he said to me.”

Of course Red John would smile. Of course. “You mentioned he had a gentle voice.”

“He did, but it wasn’t just about his voice, you see. His choice of words itself was always so warm and kind. And sometimes he’d use this very unique, profound style of speech… A little poetic, and a little grandiose, maybe. But it was like music to me.”

Jane gave an arrogant shrug that no one else saw. “One man’s profound is another’s pretentious, I guess.”

The happy memories on Rosalind’s face melted away in the shadow of hurt and anger. “For the last time, Mr. Jane...”

“No, I’m just saying he sounds like the perfect kind of gentleman… which is just another subgenre of showmanship, really. As I told you, I happen to know a thing or two about that line of business.” His smile was cold and laced with irony. “You two were intimate, right? Was he also a profound lover?”

“Mr. Jane, you need to leave.”

He wholeheartedly agreed; he’d heard more than enough praise of the man who had made his own life a living hell. But he wasn’t done just yet. “Was he profound in ways that always served to get him what he wanted? A little coercive, maybe?”

Rosalind stood up. “Get out of my house. Now.”

“Fine.”

Despite her anger, she accompanied him all the way to the front door.

“You don’t know how it feels”, she spat out her parting words on the porch as he was already walking away, “and you don’t even care, do you? You don’t care about anything. And it’s _you_ who’s coercive, Mr. Jane. Don’t you realize you’re everything you’re blaming Roy for? You’re the fraud, and the liar, and the pretender, not him. It’s all you.”

* * *

He got a phone call late into the same night.

“I was wrong about something.” It was Rosalind, her earlier animosity having toned down to coldness and disappointment. “I realized it just now. You do know how it feels… You know exactly how it feels to lose someone you love. You just think you’re above being treated the way you treat me.”

“Rosalind –“

“Now, let me ask you something personal for a change. Why don’t you tell me about your late wife and daughter? In the same amount of detail that you demanded of me, of course.”

The apology for his earlier behavior that had lingered on Jane’s tongue died out in an instant. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because, and I’m sorry to say this, my dead family is none of your business.”

A short silence fell on the line. “See? I rest my case.”

“It’s not like I forced you to talk, either. I thought you wanted me to help me with the investigation.”

“That’s not what today was about. You said it yourself, didn’t you? You were just giving me an excuse to remember my time with Roy. I hope you realize now just how cruel that was.”

“I do, but…” Jane pressed his temple like he was getting a headache. “It’s different. You know that, right? He’s not…”

“Dead? Well, that’s true”, Rosalind admitted bleakly, “but I know he’s not coming back, either.”

When there was no response from Jane, she drew a deep breath and continued.

“What you said just before you left… You couldn’t have been more wrong. Roy was the opposite of self-centered. When we… When he kissed me, I was his whole world. I was his everything. And… do you know why I felt so safe? It’s because he made himself as vulnerable as I was. He told me things, things that I will never repeat to you, because those words were between him and me alone.” For a moment, her voice sharpened. “So don’t ask me what he was like in our intimate moments. That’s none of your business.”

Jane smiled bitterly to himself. “Touché.” He briefly reconsidered apologizing to her after all, but it wouldn’t have been sincere at this point. “If it’s so painful to you, why tell me so much about Roy in the first place?”

“Because I want you to understand me. And I want to understand you, too. We may have more in common than you think.”

Jane didn’t like the sound of that. “It’s getting late, Rosalind. We should call it a night.”

“I agree. Goodnight, Mr. Jane”, she said, her tone of voice a little brighter than what it had been at the beginning of the call. “Feel free to come visit again, whenever you feel like it. I’ll be here.”

* * *

“ _Red John misses you. And it’s what you wanted too, isn’t it?”_

_Four people – five, counting the one who’d had it coming – were dead for the sole reason of giving the case back to him. This had been Red John’s most convoluted, seemingly senseless game yet. All so that he and Jane could play again._

_And as for Jane, well – he’d gotten exactly what he wanted, hadn’t he? What were the deaths of a few innocents but drops in the already vast ocean of his irredeemable mistakes? He’d recover from his guilt soon enough. He had to._

_He was right. In just a few weeks, he couldn’t feel the slightest trace of re_ _morse_ _. His focus had returned along with his access to the Red John case files, as had the few hours of sleep he needed to stay in touch with his inner brilliance._

_He felt electrified. Alive. He’d regained his reason to live, and that was all that mattered. He couldn’t let anything else matter._

“ _Red John misses you.”_

 _Perhaps that was what he’d wanted_ _to hear_ _the most._

* * *

He drove to Rosalind’s house early in the morning following Bosco’s death. To his surprise, she didn’t say a word about the mutual hostility they had spiraled into during his last visit.

In fact, she hardly spoke at all; neither did Jane, but their respective silences felt somewhat different from each other. Whereas Jane was simply fatigued and broody from the events of the previous day and the sleepless night that had followed, Rosalind kept her distance in a way that was less cold than it was considerate. Jane could remember a similar quiet from nearly everyone around him after he’d been freshly widowed.

The tea Rosalind once again served him didn’t do much to lift his worn out spirits, but it eventually urged him to speak.

“Did Roy ever talk about being _‘on the path of love and enlightenment’_ , or anything to that effect?”

Rosalind crossed her hands on the table. “He never used those exact words, and I don’t think he ever implied anything like that, either. We talked about love, of course, but it was all very mundane, not something as grandiose as what you said. Well, he did always like describing light and darkness to me in ways that I could understand… but I doubt that’s what you mean by enlightenment.”

On the contrary, it might’ve been exactly what he’d meant – or what Rebecca had meant. _Without darkness, there can be no light._

“One more thing. I apologize in advance for having to ask this, but… did you ever suspect that Roy might’ve had another lover out there?”

Rosalind shook her head calmly. “No. No, I never suspected that.”

In that moment, Jane could see from her eyes that she was pitying him.

After finishing his cup in the silence that had returned between the two of them, he thanked for the tea and stood up to leave.

At last, Rosalind spoke up on her own accord. “You think I’m a deluded fool, don’t you?”

“You’re far from a fool”, said Jane. “But I do think you’re deluded, yes. Deeply so.”

Rosalind didn’t appear too shaken by his bluntness. “Then, what about your pursuit of the man who killed your wife and daughter? Do you think revenge will free you of the pain?”

The man let out a short, dark laugh. “Don’t know about the pain, but it’ll surely free me of something.”

“See, you get to have your own delusions, Mr. Jane”, Rosalind pointed out lucidly. “So just let me have mine, okay?”

“That isn’t even remotely –”

“You should go. And I changed my mind... Until you stop thinking that you’re somehow superior to me, there’s no real reason for you to come back.”

She sipped her tea calmly as her guest heaved a quiet sigh, turned on his heels, and left without saying another word.

* * *

_Tyger! Tyger! Burning bright_

_In the forest of the night_

_What immortal hand or eye_

_could frame thy fearful symmetry?_

The months following the encounter went by in a haze.

His friends and colleagues were fast to notice he was colder, more irritable and absent than before. The inner workings of his mind had become even more immersive in favor of spending every spare moment dwelling on the words whispered into his ear. Even during his hours at the office, he found it relatively easy to shut out everyone around him – even Lisbon, who wouldn’t leave him alone for a second for the first few days.

Once she was done questioning his emotional stability and asking him the same questions over and over again, she’d switched her focus on the practicalities. This time, she was pestering him to go to his counseling session that the pesky issue of having been captured and found right in the middle of a murder scene had forced on him.

“...you have to attend yours sooner or later. You know it’s compulsory, right? You can’t keep evading it forever. They’ll drag you in by the nape of your neck if they have to.”

True, she’d decidedly stopped asking Jane how he was holding up a while ago, but he could still see traces of fear in the eyes that had found him tied up in that basement. Whether it was fear for his well-being or for what he might do next, he couldn’t be sure.

Either way, dealing with her constant fuss was taking up a lot more of Jane’s patience than usual.

“Look, I already told the whole team what happened.” Well, not exactly. The poem would remain between Red John and himself. It was private – intimate, even. “It’s in the files and everything. What’s the point of repeating myself to someone who has nothing to do with the case?”

He knew what the point was, of course. He was very much aware of the storm brewing within himself, but for now, it was still just a harmless hue painting the horizon in ominous red. Strangely enough, he found it rather calming; there was a sense of fulfillment in thinking back on the series of events that had led Red John into the same room with him. Sometimes he would even find narrow streaks of euphoria in those memories.

Then, of course, he’d remember Kristina Frye.

Lisbon frowned at the absent look in his eyes. “The point is it’s _compulsory_. It’s part of the job, so just get it over with, okay? After that, you can go back to your usual – Jane? What was that?”

“What was what?”

“You flinched. Why did you flinch when I touched you?”

“You snuck up on me.”

“No, I didn't.”

“Yes, you did. We were done talking, and then you snuck up behind me and touched me without warning.”

“We were _not_ done talking”, Lisbon retorted, her expression equal parts miffed and concerned, “and I definitely didn't sneak up behind you, I've been in front of you the whole time.” She approached him again, more warily this time. “Hey, are you okay? You seem a little out of it.”

Jane shrugged. “Out of what? Out of parking time? That can’t be good.”

“No –”

He patted around his pockets. “Huh, out of coins, too. Good thing you’ve got me covered, right?”

“Jane.” It may have been just a cheap trick to escape the situation, but Lisbon’s sulky attempt to hold back a smile brought a grin on his face as he flipped the coin he’d pulled from behind her ear. “Come on, this is serious.”

“Yep, nothing short of an emergency. I’ll have to spend the night on the couch if I’m not off and running in the next five seconds.”

“Jane!”

“Check your left pocket”, he threw blithely over his shoulder, already on the other end of the corridor.

“Don’t you tell me what to – oh.” Her fingers had already slipped into her pocket without her noticing. She could no longer conceal her smile as she drew out a small porcelain figure of an elephant. “That’s cute.” It reminded her of the much more enormous, living and breathing lookalike she’d met earlier that week while visiting the traveling carnival in town with Jane.

Oh well… She might as well let him get away, just this one time.

Jane was still chuckling quietly to himself as he climbed up the stairs, but by the time he reached the attic room that had he’d recently claimed as his personal retreat, he barely even remembered his tomfoolery with Lisbon; and as soon as he was alone with his thoughts again, the verses whispered under his breath were all that mattered to him.

* * *

“ _It sounds like he’s jealous, Patrick. It sounds like he wants to take away everything and everyone you care about… It’s a form of love, you know?”_

_There was no possible comeback to that. All Jane could do was to sit and stare at the smug look on Stiles’ face, hoping the surge of nausea washing over him wasn’t showing on his own._

_The memory of a gloved hand slid down his shoulder like an echo of Stiles’ mocking words. It felt different now. More possessive. Softer._

_Its ghost stuck firmly on hi_ _m_ _for the rest of the day; and as he stared at Kristina’s catatonic silhouette in the darkness that the snuffed candle_ _had_ _left behind, he felt it tremble with laughter._

* * *

“These last few cases.” He heard someone tap the files with a backhand. “They’re starting to look more and more like crimes of passion, don’t you think?”

“What?”

“Maybe he’s in love with you. Have you ever thought about that?”

As much as he would’ve preferred to ignore the bizarre notion disturbing his afternoon nap, Jane opened his eyes to give Cho a look of feigned puzzlement. _Not you, too,_ he thought sourly.

“Who is?” he asked despite himself.

“Red John. Every one of his recent killings seems to be somehow dedicated to you. Leaving behind small messages only you can understand, sky writing, bouquets of flowers, classical music… It’s a little romantic for a serial killer, that’s all. He even saved your life.”

Jane made a vague dismissive gesture. “Sure, you could see it that way. Or maybe he just spared my life. I didn’t feel particularly _saved_ when I was left there tied to a chair and surrounded by dead bodies, but, eh, what do I know?”

“So why didn’t he kill you as well?”

“Because I’m his favorite toy”, he huffed with a note of annoyance as if the answer was obvious, “and he likes to keep me in fear of what’s coming next. It’s the same old game he’s always playing.”

“I never said it wasn’t. All I’m saying is he seems to want your attention a little too much for his own good.”

“Maybe”, Jane said rather coldly. “But there isn’t much I can do about it, is there?”

“It might be useful, you know”, came Cho’s last remark as he headed back to his desk. “You’re looking for a weak point in his defenses, right? Maybe it’s you. Maybe you’re his weakness. If I were you, I’d use that.”

“Good thing you’re not me, then, but thank you for your input, Cho. It was very illuminating.”

Hoping the man had caught his last note of sarcasm, he closed his eyes and tried to find a more relaxed position on the couch. His brain hadn’t been getting enough oxygen for a while now; he drew a deep breath through his nose, slow and quiet enough to hide the slight shudder in it as he thought back on Cho’s words.

It did make sense. Too much so. He could feel something shifting in the dark basement of his memory palace that, after last summer, had become the most frequently visited room of his mind – he practically lived there whenever the world around him wasn’t demanding his attention. He couldn’t go there now, though, not while surrounded by so many distractions. Not now, but later… Surely whatever epiphany was lurking in there could wait for a little bit longer to be discovered.

It was as if the icy knot that had been twisting his insides for several months was finally starting to unravel.

* * *

The storm finally passed through him that night; but at dawn, he only felt clarity and rest.

* * *

“You’re different this time”, Rosalind said almost instantly after letting him in.

Jane turned around in mild surprise. It had certainly been a swift observation, even from her. “I am? Different how?”

Rosalind cocked her head thoughtfully. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s something about the sound of your footsteps… They’re lighter, like you’re not carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders for once.”

“Hm. Interesting.” Maybe the two layers of clothing he’d left home had weighed just around the same as the world itself. “Well, you’re not wrong”, he admitted, “but you really don’t have to prove yourself to me anymore. I already know you’re just as sharp-sighted as I am. Sorry, that must’ve been another unoriginal pun you keep hearing.”

She smiled. “I actually haven’t heard that one in a while, and I’m especially glad to hear it from you. I’ll make some tea. The usual, right?”

“Right… the usual.”

And then, as Rosalind was already busying herself in the kitchen, he turned to stare at the table – he could almost sense the outlines of the man on his mind who had once been seated by it – and muttered softly to himself:

“Lemongrass.”

It was the piece he’d been missing.

He stayed quiet after that, only breaking the silence with a short but sincere “thank you” when a freshly filled teacup was handed to him. Rosalind didn’t speak, either; she seemed to be waiting patiently for him to make the first move, as if they were both immersed in the same invisible game of chess.

“It’s his favorite kind of tea, isn’t it?” he said at last. Oddly enough, it happened to be his as well.

The same scent that filled his senses now had been with him the night before, and he finally understood why.

“That’s right”, said Rosalind, her tone of voice unreadable. “It is. How did you know?”

“Pure lemongrass tea isn’t commonly enjoyed in this country”, Jane said, taking a sip from his cup. “It’s popular in blends, but most people find its sweetness a little too pungent on its own. It’s not something you would serve to a guest whose personal tastes you’re not familiar with. But you served us lemongrass tea the first time we came here, and every time I visited ever since. That’s because I wasn’t just a stranger to you, was I? You already knew who I was.”

Rosalind said nothing.

“Your teapot looks relatively new”, Jane went on in his usual way. “That, or rarely used. I’m willing to bet Roy gave it to you as a present. You’re not much of a tea drinker yourself… I can tell from the way you’re still feeling around the brewing and serving process – that’s in big contrast with how effectively you handle everything else around the house. It must’ve felt special, Roy introducing this odd, tangy tea to you, and teaching you how to make a good brew of it... but in the end, it was all just an elaborate plan to make you serve me this tea, just another of his ploys to get under my skin, because Roy Tagliaferro is the man I’m after, and you… You knew it all along.”

It was all his customary song and dance, but there was none of the usual triumph of a dramatic reveal; no audience for his classic culprit-exposing monologue, except for the culprit herself – one he’d made the mistake of learning to respect as an equal.

Rosalind cast her unseeing eyes down, but her smile didn’t waver.

“You’re wrong about one thing”, she said calmly. “I actually like tea, you see. I wasn’t in the habit of drinking it until Roy came along. But I wasn’t brainwashed into serving you tea like some kind of a mindless puppet. That’s not how any of this works. I served you his favorite tea because I thought you might like it, too. Because something about you reminds me of him. You’re very similar, the two of you.”

Jane leaned back in his chair, glaring at his companion. “You’re an accomplice of a murderer.”

“No, I’m not. Don’t be silly, Mr. Jane. Whatever it is between you two, I have no part in it. I know you had your reasons to keep coming back, but the only reason I let you in is because I wanted to be your friend. And I think you enjoy my company, too. Am I wrong?”

“No”, Jane admitted, though his expression was still chilly. “You’re not wrong. In fact, you’ve seen right through me more than once in ways I couldn’t have expected. It’s been refreshing.”

Rosalind granted him a somewhat sad smile. “I do feel bad for pretending to be ignorant for so long”, she said. “But I had to earn your respect in other ways before you deserved mine. I’m sure you understand.”

Jane shook his head in disbelief for a long time before answering. “Here’s something I need _you_ to understand, Rosalind. Red John killed my family. If it weren’t for him – if it weren’t for your beloved Roy – they would still be alive. My daughter would have her fourteenth birthday next July. And my wife… Angela...” His voice faded away for a moment. “Sometimes I forget her face. Half the time I think about her, the only thing I can remember are her toenails painted red with her own blood. My memory is supposed to be a flawless machine, and it’s the only place she exists now… but sometimes I can’t reach her image at all.”

“I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it again.” Rosalind’s voice was quiet. “I’m deeply sorry for your loss. No one deserves the kind of horrors you’ve been through. But I’m glad you finally told me something about them… It makes us even.”

“How can you…” Jane managed to stop himself from lashing out at the last second. He drew a deep breath. “Look, Rosalind, you’re just refusing to admit the facts. I like you and respect you, and I don’t blame you for falling for Roy. I don’t even blame you for lying to me all this time. But you were used and betrayed, and no amount of denial will change that. I know that deep down, you’re angry, and you are fully entitled to that anger. You can’t move forward unless you acknowledge it.”

“You think I’m some grown-up child, don’t you?” Rosalind sighed. “Too naive to face the real world. But I know the truth… my own truth. Don’t we all have one?”

“So you’re perfectly content with living in your own little happy place that’s completely detached from the reality of others. Can you really call that a truth?”

Rosalind brought her tea close to her face, breathing in its fragrance. “Most of you live in a world that wasn’t built for people like me”, she began, “a world that I don’t even have an access to. But that doesn’t mean I’m completely detached from other people. I find connections and mutual understanding through shared experiences, just like everyone else does. You keep asking me how I can turn my back on some facts and live to the fullest by others, but you do it all the time yourself. And besides… You know what it’s like to be loved by him, don’t you?”

Nothing but silence followed.

Jane had never been the type to lose control over his emotions; the previous night had probably been the closest he’d ever come to that particular kind of a mental breakdown. So he had no means to escape from the deep terror spiraling within him in the wake of Rosalind’s words. There was nothing he could do but to withstand it.

“He didn’t talk about you very often”, she continued softly after a while, “at least not by name... but I could always tell when you were on his mind, like a fond memory he couldn’t help being reminded of. He cares deeply for you, in his own way.”

Jane felt a bit dizzy.

“That’s completely irrelevant”, he said at last, his voice quiet and hollow. “When I find him, I’m going to take his life. I’m going to kill him, Rosalind.”

“Of course.”

Closing her eyes for a moment, Rosalind hung her head with a faint smile.

“It’s never been easy, you know”, she said eventually, “maintaining a healthy sense of self when you’re born blind. I’ve been guarded and looked after for the better part of my life. Always told what to do and what not to do, whom to trust, what to believe… always defined by my limitations rather than my strengths. For too long I wasn’t even allowed to discover those strengths myself. So I learned to be overprotective of my independence, afraid to let anyone into my life in fear they might take it away from me. And then, one day… I met Roy.”

She lifted her face; the light reflected from the surface of her tea made her eyes look oddly illuminated.

"I don’t need you to tell me the answer, Mr. Jane, but I want you to ask yourself this”, she said. “Before he came into your life, were you happy? Did you find value in life the way you do now?"

It took Jane a good while to muster up the strength to speak.

“Even if what you’re saying was true…” He gulped; he knew there was no more room for dishonesty. “Even if it is true, that does nothing to change the fact that two innocent lives were lost because of me. None of it was worth their death. Not my happiness, nor my life.”

“Are you saying they died for nothing?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying. And they didn’t have a choice, did they?”

“No, but you do”, Rosalind answered firmly. “And you deserve to be happy. You deserve to live.”

“No. No, I don’t. That’s where you’re wrong. I don’t deserve to live.” Jane drew a shaky breath. “I never did.”

He could feel himself choking up, unable to utter another word. This was something he’d never said out loud to anyone, not even to Lisbon all those times she’d asked him what he planned to do after his quest for revenge would no longer define his life.

But he’d always known there wouldn’t be life after Red John. He had no reason – no right – to keep living beyond that point. After his dues to his lost family were paid, there would be nothing left for him but to...

Without a word, Rosalind got up and circled to the other side of the table. Her hand found its way onto Jane’s left shoulder and, when met with only a small start but no sign of rejection, wound around him to pull him into a loose embrace.

“Maybe you didn’t”, she spoke quietly as Jane’s eyes burned with tears, “before you saw the error of your ways. Maybe you weren’t worthy of a life back then. But Roy… Red John changed that. He changed you for the better. And you’re right… Your wife and child didn’t deserve to die by his hand. It should’ve been you.”

“Yes.” It was nothing more than a broken whisper. “It should’ve been me.”

“But he didn’t kill you, did he?” Rosalind said, her voice cloaked in a gentle smile. “Instead, he gave you a second chance at life, so you could learn to live with grace and dignity... That’s how much he loves you, Patrick.”

He didn’t fight it. He couldn’t fight it. He could only let the quivers of sorrow run through him as Rosalind allowed him to remain completely silent in her arms, unmoving, unfeeling despite the stray tears crawling down his face.

This was a ploy, just another twisted scheme, and he was perfectly aware of it. And yet, he found a small part of himself yearning for the same blind faith that had wrapped him in a deep comfort he’d never felt before. In that moment, all he wanted was to forget his anger and remain forever in denial.

It was just as Dumar had told him. He’d been lured in so sweetly, and he just couldn’t help himself.


End file.
